


not in south carolina anymore

by cosmicpoet



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Christmas Dinner, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 09:31:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17139308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicpoet/pseuds/cosmicpoet
Summary: Laurens and Hamilton have been invited to dine at the home of Joseph Reed for Christmas. However, Christmas for Laurens doesn't have the happiest of connotations.





	not in south carolina anymore

Laurens straightens his shirt, smoothing the collar down as he looks at himself in the mirror. There’s no doubt that he’s handsome - he knows that, not in vain fashion, but rather in honesty; and thinking of such, he’d much sooner be anything _but._ There’s no conceivable excuse he can present his father for why he is less than interested in women, especially since it has been just over two years since his union with Martha Manning. Telling his father that he is preoccupied with war is wearing thin, and questions will soon arise. And what of when - not _if,_ when - the war is won? Will he be forced, then, to return to his wife and child and to live as the husband his father expects him to be to Martha?

Before he knows it, he’s gripping his arms and trying to calm himself down. He isn’t back in South Carolina now, despite the familiarity of Christmas reminding him of family holidays; the endless staring of his father from the head of the table. _Pass the gravy, John. Tell me, have you found yourself a woman yet?_

The door opens behind him and, trapped in his thoughts, Laurens jumps, expecting his father to tread into the room and berate him. It’s only Hamilton - _only Hamilton -_ and he softens at the sight.

“Hamilton,” he says, “Merry Christmas.”

“Likewise. Washington wondered why we haven’t received you downstairs yet?”

“Oh.”

“I told him I’d talk to you.”

“I didn’t realise I’d taken so long. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. My only concern is your wellbeing.”

“I am fine.”

“Then convince me of it.”

“What is there to say?”

“Well,” Hamilton says, walking to Laurens and straightening the collar that Laurens somehow couldn’t get to stay down, “you can tell me how you _honestly_ feel, and then we can go from there.”

“Hamilton, it’s Christmas. It’s hardly the time for self-expression. If I’m used to one thing at this time of year, it’s hiding my feelings.”

“Oh?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t overshare, especially not when I’m a guest in another’s house. Come on, let’s go downstairs.”

“Not yet. I won’t eat and be merry if I know my love is suffering.”

“That’s exactly it, Hamilton. I love you, and I shouldn’t.”

“I know. Damn them. Damn your father for thinking that we are anything less than angels.”

“Christmas here is strange. I feel welcome,” Laurens says, bowing his head in shame.

“You’re not in South Carolina now.”

“But I will be. When the war is over.”

“The war isn’t yet over.”

“But it will be. We will win, and if I am not dead, I’ll have to return to South Carolina, to…never mind.”

“To whom, Laurens?”

“To my father, obviously.” _To my wife and child in London, of whom I must be obliged to inform you of, and yet of whom I am so ashamed of my absence and my love for you that I cannot conjure sentiment enough to convince you that I am yours._

“You do not seem to have enough conviction in saying so.”

“Well,” Laurens laughs bitterly, “I have hope yet that I shall be struck down in a hero’s war.”

“I understand.”

“You’re not going to try and dissuade me?”

“I have no interest in wading my words through hypocrisy.”

“You’re not destined to die in war.”

“How can you speak of destiny, then, Laurens? Are you so assured that you won’t live to see victory?”

“It’s…complicated. I want to see victory, herald it with glory, but I don’t want the aftermath; the rest of my life.”

“And you aren’t satisfied with taking each day as it comes?”

“Absolutely not. I have goals, Hamilton. I’m never satisfied.”

“And I too. But, my dear Laurens, if you are so set on dying in war - and I have no words pertinent to dissuade you - then can you at least appreciate one dinner with your love?”

“I have a one track mind.”

“And Reed has a Christmas dinner downstairs, with a place at the table for you. If not for me, let obligation drive you to dine with us.”

“It would be rude for me not to allow my host to receive me. Alright, Hamilton, I’m coming.”

Laurens descends the stairs, following Hamilton’s footsteps. He makes the effort to place his feet in the exact places that Hamilton graces before him, as if doing so will allow him to merge into his lover and be permitted the freedom of Christmas-dinner-questions that’s he’s all too familiar with.

The table is rich with candles and food, and Laurens silently prays that there will be an absence of religious discussion at this dinner. Not to say that he doesn’t believe in God - rather, that he fears that too much speculation on the subject will send his mind right back to South Carolina and his father’s musings upon Hell. He pours himself a glass of wine, toasting to Reed, a thanks for hosting him. Hamilton and the Washingtons follow suit, and for a moment, if only for _that moment,_ he feels normal.

Underneath the table, Hamilton lays his hand on Laurens’ thigh, a familiar comfort in an unfamiliar situation. The gesture itself says everything necessary; _you are safe, I am here with you, and South Carolina is a nightmare for another day._

If only things could be this way always.

The wine relaxes him. Hamilton, ever the lightweight, sips hot cider whilst Laurens refills his fifth glass with alcohol; this makes him feel okay. Of course, the bottles of gin and whiskey beside his bed that lull him to sleep and wake him in turn speak more of addiction and repression than anything, but he won’t now dwell on his failings as a man.

When the dishes are cleared away, and Martha and Esther retreat to another room to talk, Washington speaks of politics with Reed, which leaves Hamilton and Laurens to sit at the table alone.

“I know your game,” Hamilton says matter-of-factly.

“My game?”

“I saw it in your eyes only two days ago. I’m sure Lee saw it also. You duelled for an honour that wasn’t yours, and you showed no fear. It’s been on my mind.”

“Oh.”

“Exactly how much do you want to die, Laurens?”

“I don’t think that’s something that a measurable scale exists for.”

“Me too. I think, for different reasons, though.”

“How so?”

“I would die to help my country win the war. You would die for your country because you think your life is only useful if you throw it away.”

“It isn’t quite that.”

“Then what is it?”

“There are things I haven’t told you, Hamilton.” _Martha. Frances._

“Then tell me.”

“Not now. Not at Christmas.”

“If you will not let me in, at least give me a better reason. You and I both know that you don’t place any importance on this holiday any more.”

_Because I want you to love me. Because I am terrified of only one thing._

“Hamilton, if there is any part of you that loves any part of me, you will leave me to my misery.”

“I will leave your misery, and the subject of its cause, but never, not in any lifetime, my dear Laurens, will I leave _you.”_

“And that would be enough,” Laurens says, resting his head on Hamilton’s shoulder and taking a sip of wine. If only for today, he can pretend to be the man of glory that he courts in his mind. And angels, when they choose to sing him to death, will have familiar faces.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my lovely friend Kait as a Christmas present! Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also, I think this fic is historically accurate. Two days after Laurens shot Charles Lee, he was invited to Christmas dinner with the Washingtons at the home of Joseph Reed. It's likely that Hamilton was also present. I believe this was in 1778 (?), and since we know that Hamilton found out about Laurens' marriage and child in the "Cold in my professions..." letter, which is dated 1779 (?), we can assume that Hamilton, at this time, didn't know about Martha Manning or Frances Laurens.


End file.
